


5 Times Ian Drops And Mickey Doesn't Get It +1 Time They Do It Right

by penlex



Series: early and unprepared [2]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: 5 Times, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Dom/sub Undertones, Domdrop, Domspace, First Time, Homophobic Language, Kink Discovery, M/M, No Aftercare, Pushy Bottoms, Rough Sex, Season/Series 01, Sub!Mickey, Under-negotiated Kink, dom!Ian
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-15
Updated: 2017-11-15
Packaged: 2019-02-02 22:17:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12735408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penlex/pseuds/penlex
Summary: Silly Dom, drop isn't just for subs.





	5 Times Ian Drops And Mickey Doesn't Get It +1 Time They Do It Right

**Author's Note:**

> This one is primarily from Ian's point of view, and I'm trying to keep it interesting by making all 5+1 Times a different 5+1 Times than in Mickey's. There will be canon typical levels of homophobic, racist, and sexist language, and of course the sensitive theme. Tagged warnings will be added to with each chapter. Read at your own discretion.
> 
> This is also a repost of this fic after some editing. No schedule for updates, like with the others; all updates will be a pleasant surprise for us all.

Mickey Milkovich is a whole handful of surprises. At least he is once Ian sees him in his natural habitat, anyway. Ian is distracted for a moment, looking around Mickey's room when he gets in there, not frantic now like last time. Last time he just came in and searched for Kash's gun, panicky and urgent, but now he has a plan so he's calm and ready. His breaths come easy and steady, even though his heart is racing (he is about to fight one of the south side's worst with just a tire iron he found on the porch, after all) as he looks around at Mickey's weirdly nice room. It smells a little, like dirty laundry, but the room Ian shares with his brothers smells nearly the same. There's a couple posters on the walls and some things that look hand drawn and are actually pretty good, even if some of them are a little bit disturbing.  
  
Whatever. Ian's not here to practise armchair psychology on the town thug. He's here to fight, to get Kash's gun back, to hopefully make it the fuck out alive.  
  
Mickey is sleeping face down, one arm flung out over the side of his bed, his eyebrows for once not pinched or raised. He's obviously dirty, wife beater dingy and no longer white if it ever was, but his cheek is smooshed into his pillow and his hair is fluffy and - surprise! - he looks kind of cute. Ian had never noticed that Mickey's nose came to a point like that (or that his jaw came to such a nice sharp curve, or that his butt was so round).  
  
But these things are the absolute last things that Ian should be thinking right now. Or ever. Like he'd reminded himself less than one fucking second ago, he's here to fight, and not a damn thing else.  
  
He pokes Mickey in the back with the tire iron, from a distance. He thinks he read something somewhere once about staying far away because it makes you harder to disarm. Might not still be true if your weapon is a blunt object, though. But Ian would really rather be a few steps away anyway, just in case. Mickey wakes quickly, quicker than Ian expected.  
  
"The fuck?" he says, as he pushes up from the mattress on his arms (biceps- no, focus). His sleepy voice is a rusty whine. It doesn't sound tough or intimidating at all. Ian would love to hear it again any time (focus, focus!).  
  
"I want the gun back, Mickey," Ian demands, trying to sound all tough and intimidating like Mickey usually is enough for both of them. He knows he has a baby face, and his floppy ginger hair and bajillion freckles hardly strike fear into the hearts of men (especially not any Milkovich men). He can't get by on just the tire iron alone. Mickey only mumbles Ian's last name, confused as to what's going on probably, and seemingly totally unconcerned with whatever it is.  
  
"The gun," Ian insists. He gestures with the tire iron for emphasis, but Mickey still doesn't seem to give a fuck that he's being threatened in his own room. Instead, he just rubs sleep out of his eyes and says, "Alright." He rolls over and reaches for the drawer on his bedside table and Ian leans over to look, curious despite himself, and - surprise! - Mickey whirls around and slams Ian hard against the wall over his bed, and then his hand too. Ian's fingers get majorly squished between the handle of the iron and the wall (fuck, that hurts, he hopes they're not broken) and just like that Ian is down his one and only weapon and fighting for his life.  
  
Mickey gets an arm around Ian's neck, but before he can put him in a headlock Ian manages to throw him, over one shoulder martial arts style (Jesus he wishes he was better at this stuff already; he needs more practice). Mickey just gets right back up again and comes at Ian for more, and all Ian can think to do - like an idiot - is to push him away. Mickey's back hits his dresser, and Ian hears something break. There's only a second for Ian to see the look on Mickey's face, but just a second is enough for Ian to know it's not good. He's somehow managed to get himself into even more fucking trouble. Perfect.  
  
Ian dives for the tire iron, desperate and stupid enough to completely turn his back on his opponent (never do that, they teach you, never, nice fucking going, Gallagher). Mickey lands on Ian's back almost immediately, knocks all of Ian's hasty breath out of his lungs, and flips Ian over with ease. Ian has the tire iron, but Mickey digs his knee into Ian's other shoulder and grabs his hand and squeezes hard until Ian's yanking his hand away before his fingers get totally crushed, and the tire iron is Mickey's.

There's nothing left that Ian can think of to do with Mickey looming over him, on top of him, armed. Shit. This is the fucking end. Ian's going to die, or at least lose his pretty face, right here and right now because he went on some stupid quest for a married asshole who can't stand up for himself. He shuts his eyes as tight as they'll shut and regrets every single one of his decisions, gasping, trying not to think about how badly it'll hurt when the tire iron comes down, waits for the quick whistle of it going through the air to meet his head... and then slowly realizes - surprise! - the only sound he hears is Mickey's heavy breathing.  
  
Ian cautiously lets his eyes open one at a time and peers up at Mickey. He's just staring. Ian doesn't know what the fuck is happening until Mickey drops the tire iron and is suddenly tearing his shirt off, and oh - surprise! - Ian's going to live and - surprise! - his body is _really_ into that. Of course, the soft outline of muscle underneath the masculine curves of Mickey's torso certainly don't fucking hurt. Ian is hard in a second, and even though his head is spinning - with adrenaline, relief, arousal - he's on board right away.  
  
Right away is apparently not quite quick enough for Mickey though, because even as Ian is urgently contorting out of his stupid coat, Mickey is already tugging at the hem of Ian's t-shirt so that Ian ends up with all three of his layers tangled up around the gloves he forgot to take off first. The confused mess is sorted out soon enough though, in the form of being yanked the fuck off and thrown on the fucking ground. Mickey goes for his own pants next, and scooches backwards further onto the bed. Ian follows, crawling after him without grace, tips over and lands mouth first on Mickey's shoulder.  
  
Mickey is not as dirty as Ian first thought, but he's definitely not minty fresh. There's no taste of dirt like Ian was half expecting, but there is a layer of dry sweat that Ian licks through to get to clean skin. He lets his teeth scrape a little, and grins when Mickey's breath gusts out of him and blows past Ian's ear. Mickey flops down onto his back and kicks his pants the rest of the way off, yanks at Ian's waistband to get him to follow suit, and reaches behind him to that same bedside drawer to fish a little packet of free lube and a condom out.  
  
Now here's the real surprise. Mickey throws that packet of lube and that condom at Ian's chest, and then he turns over onto his belly. Ian's breath stutters in his throat at the sight. Mickey's back has the same look as his front - visibly toned, but cushioned - and his ass. Jesus. It's fucking perfect. Ian takes one pale cheek into each hand and squeezes gently - and then less gently, because holy fuck.  
  
"Just put your fucking fingers in it, dickhead," Mickey snaps in a low voice, and Ian can't argue with that. He tears open the lube packet with his teeth and smears half of it onto his pointer and middle and does exactly as he was told. Mickey's breath hitches sharply, but he pushes back onto Ian's hand so Ian takes it as a good sign.

Ian barely gets seconds of feeling Mickey's hot insides move around his fingers with every impatient roll of his hips, with every too deep breath, before Mickey is growling, "Jesus, fuck me already, would you?" Ian can argue with that, though. He likes to draw this part out. He likes to map out the terrain, so to speak, before he goes in. (And he also likes to make his partner wait for it, get him really worked up and ready. It makes Ian feel strong. Capable. Sexy.)  
  
Mickey doesn't seem to appreciate Ian's attention to detail though. He reaches back with one hand to grab Ian by the dick and try to put him where he wants him and says, "Here, you just-" and, well. Ian's all for being a pushy bottom and all, but he's not anywhere near fond of being bossed around or talked down to. He'll fuck Mickey when he's good and ready. In a there and gone flash of temper, he grabs Mickey's wrist just a hair too tightly and presses Mickey's arm into his own back.  
  
"I know how to do it," he snarls (he can feel his lip curl and his nose crinkle and everything), and instead of fighting him Mickey - surprise! - grunts in such a way that Ian can tell it would have been a long moan if Mickey had let it out all the way. So, even when his little snap of anger has passed, Ian keeps his hand right where it is, and goes back to looking for Mickey's prostate with the fingers that are still buried in that perfect ass. Ian knows for sure he's found it when Mickey makes another not-quite moan, his eyebrows draw together over closed eyes and an open mouth (surprise! Mickey Milkovich's o-face is the hottest one Ian has ever seen), and the hand Ian is holding behind him curls into a fist. There, _now_ he's ready to fuck Mickey.

Ian tears the condom open with his teeth and rolls it on one-handed, still holding Mickey's arm across his back with the other. He follows it up with the rest of the lube, smearing it over himself in a rush, and then lines up and presses in He watches himself disappear into Mickey's hole with rapture. When he finally looks up again, Ian sees that Mickey is literally biting his fucking pillow. He'd laugh about it if it wasn't so hot.  
  
When he's fully seated, Ian plants his free hand in the pillow on the other side of Mickey's head and uses that leverage to pound him hard. From the muffled noises coming out from behind the cloth in Mickey's mouth, that's exactly the way he likes it. Watching a new layer of sweat build between Mickey's strong shoulder blades and drip down his pine, making his hair begin to curl, feeling his wrist trapped in his hand, his amazing ass hot around his dick, hearing all those pretty grunts that make it out, it doesn't take very long for Ian to come. He grunts too, into the nape of Mickey's neck, feels the sounds Mickey's making that he can't hear as vibrations against his lips, loses his vision for just a second.

Ian stays there like that for a moment, catching his breath, and then lets Mickey's wrist go so that he can reach under him for his cock instead. Mickey makes an adorable little "huh?" when he feels Ian touch him, but he gets with the program quickly enough, lifting his hips to give Ian better access and curling his newly freed arm around his head, grasping the pillowcase with the other one (Ian doesn't realize until later that - surprise! - Mickey was hiding his face, bashful). Ian strokes, adjusts his grip, until Mickey's back is heaving with his gasps, and Ian doesn't blink so that he doesn't miss a single detail when Mickey finally comes, his back flexing and his shoulders curled in tight, the back of his neck bare and vulnerable and flushing prettily pink and looking like it could do with a bite mark or two.  
  
Ian wipes his hand on Mickey's belly instead of the sheets, because he really can be a dickhead and he knows it and he ain't ashamed. Then he flops over onto his back so that he can stare at the ceiling and remember how to breathe normally. As his sweat starts to dry, he gets cold and pulls the sheet out from under his butt to drape it over both of them instead.

Eventually, Mickey rolls over too, and takes a breath like he's about to say something, but before he gets it out his disgusting nazi dad bursts through the door without any warning whatsoever, like the god damn specter of death itself. They listen to him piss (a more unpleasant thing Ian can't think of), and then he comes back into the room and stares at them. Ian is completely frozen, not breathing, like a dumb prey animal that thinks if it just stays still enough the predator will pass it by.  
  
But Terry Milkovich just says, "Put some clothes on, you look like a coupla fags," and does, indeed, pass by. If he hadn't just come, Ian would probably be hard again from the near death experience. As it is, though, he has just come, and so has Mickey, and now that Terry Milkovich is awake it's not safe for them to keep on acting or looking like what they are.

So they get dressed, quickly and in silence, and while Ian is tying his shoes Mickey pulls Kash's gun from some mysterious hiding place and tosses it on the rumpled bed, just shy of the wet spot. Ian takes that as a sign, leans in, but Mickey tells him, "Kiss me and I'll cut your fuckin' tongue out." Which. Okay. That's fair. Some people just don't like kissing, or only kiss their boyfriends, and besides that Mickey is clearly closeted as fuck. Technically, Ian is still closeted too, so. Whatever. So instead of a kiss, Ian just grabs Kash's gun, runs into Mandy, gloats a little, and catches a ride back home on Cloud Nine.  
  
Ian feels euphoric, invincible, celebrity level attractive, all the way through dinner, and he honestly expects that feeling to last, at least until something happens to turn his mood sour somehow. For fuck's sake, he went into Milkovich territory and not only lived but he also got laid and he won, kind of. Got what he went in for, anyway.

But even though Ian's night goes just fine, nobody makes him feel like shit, the water's warm when he showers, he hasn't forgotten any homework, he still ends up feeling numb and weak just before bed. He's sore all over, which he guesses isn't that unusual after a rough fuck like that. Normally, he'd just sleep it off, but despite being bone-deep fucking exhausted Ian just can't get to sleep.

Maybe it's just because it's been a while since he's gotten that into it.

Whatever, he thinks as his eyes start to feel dry from staring at the ceiling too long and he feels a headache creeping up on him. He'll be back to normal tomorrow.  
  
It's not like it's going to happen again.


End file.
